As I am leaving my beloved’s apartment building, I bump into one of our neighbors. Twenty-three years my senior, he looks quite good to me, but I can see that he has lost some weight since the last time we have met. He is a bit yellow in the face, as well. “How are things?” I ask him as we are shaking hands. “Ah,” he mumbles, “the right ankle and the left knee are killing me.” “C’mon,” I grin at him as happily as I can, “you look great!” He shakes his head. “Cancer,” he sighs after a pause. “What’s your PSA?” he proceeds without even asking me whether I know what is the acronym for the Prostate Specific Antigen. “Around five,” I answer nonchalantly. “Mine’s one-hundred and thirty-five,” he nods seriously and looks into my eyes. “Fingers crossed,” I shake his hand again and we part on a merry note. But PSA is still with me. Did he only guess I would happen to know about this index of prostate cancer in the blood, or was he simply oblivious to our age difference?